Chasing the Dragon
by sithmarauder
Summary: Pulling away, England inhales sharply, his eyes dilating slightly as he does so before he hands the aluminium-wrapped drug to China. "Your turn." England/China.


**Title: Chasing the Dragon  
Author: sithmarauder  
Pairing(s): England/China, and (implied) one-sided England/America and (past) one-sided China/Japan.****  
Disclaimer: Hetalia and all affiliated characters do not, and will never, belong to me.  
Warnings: Sex, and implications of past sex.  
**

Ah… The strange little obsession with writing something for England/China has been floating around my head for awhile, but it wasn't until I found myself babysitting one night (the kids were asleep) that I decided to act on it.

I know jack-all about smoking heroin, so pardon me. I'm going off of Wikipedia here. In addition to that, "Chasing the Dragon" is a slang term for smoking heroin.

Please, enjoy, and ignore all mistakes. If I see any later, I will fix them.

-x-

Gloved fingers run across his skin, the silk of the fabric cool against flushed skin as green eyes hover before his face, half-closed, the lust glinting plainly – easy for China to read. The air is thick and heavy with fumes – vapors that emanate from not one, but three, wrapped, silver-coloured objects.

"Light it."

China complies silently, the red silk robe he is wearing slipping off of one slim shoulder as he kneels at England's feet, lighting the device under the wrapped diacetylmorphine. The other nation's eyes – _so green, so green, just like he remembers_ – spark as more fumes are released into the air, and the two take a few moments to inhale them lightly before China leans against England's legs, his eyes half-lidded, drowsy, almost.

He's lost track of how many times they've done this. How many times they have snuck off, leaving the other nations in favour of returning to one of England's hotels, one large window overlooking the lights of the city as the moon, in whatever stage, shines above.

Tonight it is full.

China's hand curls around England's wrists as the green-eyed nation's gloved hand reaches under his chin, just resting there, silent, as they breathe in, and out, and in, and out – each inhalation inviting more of the toxic vapors into their immortal bodies.

England is gentle tonight, and China is tired. Tonight, it's not just about sex – at least not yet, nor is it about wanting to see who breaks first – who will scream first. It's not about wild trysts, bodies tangled in pristine white sheets as they pant and press and moan against each other, riding out the euphoria of the drug, and the tension that always gathers when the meetings drag on for too long, or when the economic crisis gets to be too much to handle. But China knows that, once the heroin breaches the mental barriers they have both constructed, it will soon become like that. So China is hardly surprised when England's hand gently forces his chin up, and China rises slightly on his knees to press a soft but chaste kiss on England's lips, the blonde nation exhaling slowly as they draw apart.

England studies him for a moment, his hand brushing across China's bare shoulder as he slowly pushes the red silk robe farther down, his fingers burning across China's skin as the ancient nation shivers in response. Slowly reaching up, China removes the top hat from England's head, only sparing a few seconds to take in the bright red poppy that the other has placed in it.

It's not the time to bring up old wounds and scars. Not now.

England's hand has slowly wrapped around China's waist, pulling him up off the floor so that he's practically sitting in the other nation's lap, straddling England's hips as his pale, slender fingers work deftly on the buttons of England's crisp white shirt.

The heroin isn't the only thing they do, after all, China thinks belatedly as his lips connect with England's again, his hands threading through blonde hair as England skims fingers under China's robe. In England's free hand is one of the three heroin packages.

Pulling away, England inhales sharply, his eyes dilating slightly as he does so before he hands the aluminum-wrapped drug to China.

"Your turn."

It's rather silly, as one does not use diacetylmorphine like ones smokes a cigarette, but China brings it close to his face anyway, feeling the drug invade his system as defenses break and thoughts dissipate. China grinds into England, connecting their mouths again in a more heated kiss. England moans, and the heroin falls, forgotten, onto the polished floor of the room.

The others are always cautious when mentioning anything to do with opium, China knows. The Opium Wars he had fought against England – against France, against America, even if the latter two weren't there from the very beginning – were enough to make the nations act as if they were treading on thin ice. And in the end, even after fighting valiantly, China had lost – lost to England, as so many others had done before him.

It wasn't love – how could it be? It was necessity, and they were okay with that. Commitment was such a fragile thing – treaties could be broken, and allies could be become enemies with just the signing of a paper, or a loud declaration.

China doesn't think as England pushes the red robe off of both his shoulders, his lips moving down the older nation's throat and collarbone, licking, sucking and biting, careful not to leave any visible marks on China's pale skin – any clues that may alert the other nations. He doesn't think as England's hands grasp his hips sharply, and he doesn't think as he nimbly removes England's shirt from his body, and then it's skin against skin, save China's robe, which has be parted to reveal nothing that England hasn't seen countless times before. The blonde nation's pants are undone, but not removed, and China hardly flinches as England lifts him effortlessly before lowering him again, for the feeling of being penetrated is no longer foreign – no longer painful, as it used to be. China rocks his hips again, a low moan issuing from his throat, followed by a growl from England as the other's nails and fingers dig into China's hips, gripping and relaxing at random intervals and China continues to rock and move, and England finds a way to thrust upwards, resulting in a pleasured cry from China as his already hazy vision becomes painted with spots. He doesn't think he can ever get tired of this – the drug-induced jubilation combined with the mind-blowing bliss that England can invoke within him.

China arches, his own hands relinquishing England's shoulders, falling uselessly at his side instead before England moves one hand up to the back of his neck. China rests his hands on England's face now, one on each side, as they kiss again, mouths moving with and against each other.

They don't stay that way until they run out of air. That action is for lovers, something they are not. Instead they constantly break apart and come back together, their motions relentless and filled with passion – passion, not affection.

China moves, England thrusts, China moans, and England growls. It's as simple as one plus one, and they know that. There is nothing deeper – not love, like China knows England harbours for America; like he had once held for Japan.

It makes China wonder, as England's thrusts become faster and his moans deeper, if America has ever seen this side of the former pirate – the wild, passionate, deviant side, instead of the posh, uptight, snappish, cynical, 'gentlemanly' side England so often displays. He realizes this is a pointless question, however, as he already knows that the oblivious Western country has not – and likely never will. America, and his revolution, is something they never speak of – just as Japan, his betrayal, and the jagged white scar running down China's back is never brought up, either. They already know everything there is to know, and see no reason to dredge up painful memories when what they are here to do is supposed to be an escape from them.

And when China comes, his scream echoing through the velvet-draped room, it isn't Japan's name on his lips anymore, but England's, the real one – and he almost smiles as he hears England ground out his own name. Almost.

China collapses against England, his head bent and resting on the other's sweat-slicked shoulder as England trails a hand up his back to pull China's hair out of the ponytail. It's almost a fruitless action, as most of China's silky black hair has already escaped the simple band, spilling down his back and over his own shoulders.

China dimly realizes that the heroin in the air has lessened, the fumes being absorbed by the air, the scent replaced with the unmistakable smell of sex and sweat. He's used to this smell now, though, and finds himself wondering about the next time they do this – will there be a full moon, as there is now, or will the moon have hidden itself from them completely, dragged under dark waters by foul creatures as it seemingly vanishes from the sky? Will they be chasing the dragon to darkness, or light?

China is distracted as he feels England's hand tangle in his hair, and as he tries to see what England is doing, he notices the red flower that England has placed in his hair, over his ear.

The poppy sits there innocently, a startling contrast to China's dark hair, a reminder of everything. This little flower, the cause of so much past pain, and so much present pleasure. China reaches up to stroke the petals lightly, and the flower doesn't move. The poppy that they have fought wars over – or rather, the drugs that can be made out of it. These opium plants – these ecstatic drugs.

A sigh is breathed against his neck, and China shifts lightly, pressing his forehead against England's as the other nation looks up at him levelly, breath mingling as they just sit there and stare for a few moments, for tomorrow they will be returning to their respective lands – home. Home, to deal with even more crisis, and, in some cases, upheaval.

When England asks what China is tracing gently on his chest, the Asian nation doesn't answer right away. He just hums a tune from his past, his eyes lowered, almost seductively, as he works. After all, it is but a simple thing, as desire often is. Pleasure. Satisfaction.

When China is done tracing the characters that make up England's name, he turns to the other nation, foreheads resting together still.

"Arthur."

"Is that what you were writing, then?"

China smiles, but he says nothing in reply. England knows, England understands, and that is enough. China knows, too, that they will soon find themselves here again, repeating the same actions, over and over and over – chasing the dragon until time ends. And try as he might, he can't find fault – not in himself, nor in the man who shares his bed, and his body.

England places a finger on one of the bite marks, smirking as he makes a sharp remark about its particular placement. They both know it will be gone by the World Meeting. The marks always are. It's why they have to make new ones, see. Ones that only they know about.

China places a slender finger against England's lips, silencing the younger nation.

"Sometimes you talk too much, aru," he says simply, and England falls silent, though China does feel the slightly possessive grasp on his hips again, causing him to moan slightly at the faint friction.

They move to the bed now, however, England pulling out, as he had not done earlier. And even as the blonde nation pulls the white sheets over them, falling asleep almost instantly, China knows he will wake up in the morning to an empty bed. Staying means commitment and promises, and they cannot risk that – it will not last. It never does. Lightly brushing some hair from England's face, China allows himself to watch the other man simply – watch as his chest rises and falls as he breathes in and out. China slips out of bed then, opening a window to let the last of the heroin vapour out, before returning, his body sinking back into the plush bedding thankfully.

He cannot love England, for it would mean too much pain when he has to let him go. But he knows, deep down inside, that if he were to let himself, it would be very easy to fall for the other nation – as a man, not as a country. Perhaps part of his reluctance can be attributed to fear, he thinks. He had loved Japan, and where had that gotten him? It is with that thought that China falls asleep at last, allowing himself to smile faintly as England unconsciously reaches for him, and their bodies entwine together once more.

When China awakes the next morning to find that he is indeed alone, as he knew he would be, he allows a small, melancholic smile to work its way across his face.

Just because he can't love England, does not mean he doesn't, after all.


End file.
